


Touch

by RuleBritannia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, cas centric, introspective, spoilers for s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuleBritannia/pseuds/RuleBritannia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel first laid a hand on Dean in hell, he was lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

When Castiel first laid a hand on Dean in hell, he was lost. Plenty of his brethren would tell you this with anger and hurt in their tone, for all the wrong reasons, but it would be nonetheless true.

Perception, as an angel, would be undiscribable in any human language. He's seen all of the Universe in every small particle. Heard the music of creation in perfect harmony with his Grace. Smelled the energy of life forming on countless thunderous oceans. Tasted the Glory of his Father's will as His words formed on his tongue. But it was touch, of all the senses, that would be his undoing.

Touch through a Vessel; a tool at the best of times, a prisson at the worst. A meat-suit, some of his brothers would call in desdain. A means for them to walk amongst lesser creatures without killing them with their unsurmountable splendor. Castiel had foolishly believed that it also served him to be closer to humanity, to experience the world through their limitations, to a degree.

Touch, a sense he had never really needed, and one he had never fully understood, connected as he was to all of creation.

Through all the wonders he'd experienced, the wonders he's assisted in creating, humanity had always been what had sparkled Castiel's curiosity the most. Through millenia of observation, through millions upon millions of prayers heard, he was still in awe of these beings his Father loved. So repetitive and predictable so much of the time, yet so unique, always.

But their souls, oh, their souls were breathtaking, and terrifying. Little bottled fragments of God, that they nursed or tarnished, that they shaped as their own through their lifetimes of routine and suffering. Some were true works of art, and each one of them were the artists.

In Hell, these were mangled and broken, devoid of any trace of the beauty they had started with, even before decades of torture. He marched through the faces of true evil to get to The Rightgeous Man, filled with pride, and exaltation. He had seen in each one every last second of what had got them there, all the things they'd chosen to do to their souls, willingly.

The few innocent souls there had made him lose his step at times, had stricken him with sorrow and questions he was not ready to ask, but he'd marched on, wondering if he would ever look at a human the same way again, knowing what they could do to themselves, and each other.

Then there He'd been, The Rightgeous Man, broken, cracked all over, and so dark. A black hole of pain, destroying all in his wake, and absorbing every ounce of torment he inflicted. Castiel had charged, realising with aprehension that it was up to him to complete the task for which so many of his brethren had died.

The closer he'd got, the more he'd doubted; doubted, in his more rational thoughts, that this man was worthy, but most of all, he'd doubted himself. Because all of Dean Winchester's soul, with every crack and all its darkness, with all the self- indulgence and vice lathering it, was the most gorgeous, awe inspiring thing Castiel had ever laid eyes on. It was nothing even close to pure, and yet, the purest, the brightest and the darkest thing he'd ever seen. So close to losing his humanity, yet encompassing all that had made Castiel love humans for so long. A contradiction that made more sense to him with a single look than the balance of the whole of creation.

With one touch, Castiel had been lost.

Nothing he had ever thought he knew about humanity could compare to curling his fingers around that particular human soul. All his observations of him had paled with one single touch and the rush of _connection_ , of _right_ , of _true_ , that coursed through the angel like electricity, banquishing any and all doubts. Castiel believed then, and he'd fought and bled to get him out of Hell, his Grace singing the loudest it had ever sung _Dean Winchester is saved_.

Every touch after that had been new. It had become a new lesson on a subject Castiel was supposed to know well. From Sam Winchester, tainted with demon blood, conflict, doubt and a healthy dose of petulance, but pushed relentlessly with the most innocent _good_ , to the raw potential and almost angelic purity of a small child, to the strenth and courage of a brothel hooker who still missed her dad. And Dean, with every touch seeming to get closer, but never close enough, ever changing and fixed, full of love and selfishness, leaving Castiel's world on its head, over and over.

Yet it wasn't until he lost it all, until a touch was nothing more than nerves alerting his unimpressive brain of the proximity of another object, that Castiel really understood.

He owed it to April, he guessed, or whatever her name was. Much as he realised the horror he should feel at what had happened, he could only focus on the memory of her, so absolutely distant, so much a stranger, eons away from connecting to his soul in the way he knew was possible, and her skin touching his, the comfort, the hope it gave him. There was no love lost between them, but for a moment, at least on his end, there had been an understanding, a profound loneliness and the infinite comfort of a brush of fingers.

It should have felt like nothing compared to the whole of his existance, but for a moment, it had been everything.

It had opened a door he didn't know how to close. It had been hope that had matched the one he'd felt on Dean Winchester's soul in Hell. He had, since then, rejoiced in the idea of sharing even a small part of that comfort with the one soul he truly cared about sharing it with. Just a brush of fingers on his face, just to trace that impossible distance on his skin, and share that hope of connection with him. That's all he could dare to dream about.

He was a soldier, though. He could not sit this fight out. He would not leave them to face it alone. But as Castiel tasted the whole of the Universe in one bite of a peanut butter sandwich, he grieved for an absent friend, and all the distance they wouldn't be able to try and breach, together.


End file.
